The world’s truth got rewrapped in the thin paper of physics, yet time stayed still like frost on glass; guess I’m in for another round of nagging. Qing An thought so.

“Stories of the world get carved into the bark of future history. Nothing more, nothing less. Savior Demon King Andor stormed the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom and carried off the Eternal God Feriel. Andor returned to the human world, proposed to Gloria Colonna, third princess of the Iron Kingdom Colonna, and received a vast fief beside the Hero Academy. Thus the silver tale closed like dusk on water. From here, it’s the age ahead, the Era of Cold Verdure.”

Haydon fell quiet, a pause like a held breath before rain, and his tone carried a chill of disdain.

“As Wisdom God Haydon, I must say this: all things are written, like constellations fixed in night. That is why I came to meet you. The duty of ‘Limiter to the Endless Demon King Andor’ is no longer needed. Perhaps you can try a life you never let your shadow touch.”

“Mm... maybe because my build is, you know, very deluxe, like a pavilion of jade and iron. They used some organ from the Ocean of Darkness, the blood of the Endless Demon King, the soul of an ancient Hero, and now, the oath of the Starry Sky gods. So even after glimpsing that abyss-stuff no human should see, I bounce back like grass after rain. I’d rather hide behind ‘the mental shock hasn’t worn off’ as a fig leaf, to cover the fact I haven’t thought about anything.”

“You’ve been blunt as a hammer, even over-explaining, like you think the other side’s a fool.”

“Hey, I’m using rude words to soothe Mr. Haydon’s guilt, like cool wine over a burn. Creating someone just to restrain the Endless Demon King goes against the free will the Divine Being preaches. I get it, I get it. If it were my dad, he’d use me like a disposable knife and toss me without a blink.”

“Putting god and Demon King on the same scale to judge virtue is already mockery, like laughing under a shrine’s eaves. If Sane were here, you’d get a punishment you’d remember like a scar.”

“Speak to people as people, to ghosts as ghosts; to kids, don’t bring a brain. Miss Qing An knows the script. Like—see, I didn’t ask about your withered left hand, dry as an old branch. I can guess the root: a god going to the Demon Realm pays a price. But since Mr. Haydon didn’t bring it up, I seal my lips like a jar. Right?”

“... And then?”

“So, out of courtesy like a lacquered mask, out of knowing the other, out of a smooth, friendly way to sit at the same table. Mr. Haydon, as the all-knowing, you should grasp a mortal’s little abacus. I don’t want your prophecy. I don’t want my future told. Even if it’s a boon others would kneel for, the reason—you understand, like a bell before it rings.”

Qing An copied her father’s habit, using honorifics when the words turned heavy, like a drumbeat.

Mostly because solemn declarations need a proper mask, like silk over steel; even if daggers rest under the table, you smile above it; even if you hate the sight, you shake hands when the contract ink dries.

And a small part, of course, was for irony. Mock what? Order, justice, rules, virtue—those bright words that glitter like frost and cut like it too.

“What’s the actor’s ultimate? To fill the real thing’s gap with a crafted face, to press close, surpass, then become the real, and brand the old real as fake. That’s the most beautiful, the brightest, the most blazing peak.” That wild note is Dad’s style. I just think it’s cool, so I borrow it as a life creed, though I’ve got neither wish nor creed, like a sky with no star to steer by.

Play the appointed role to the very edge, like a blade meeting its sheath.

Knows not life, nor death, like a lantern with no oil.

This monster who shouldn’t exist had no wish, like a mirror with no image.

“I can feel pain, but what’s the meaning of pain? In my book, ‘pain’ doesn’t hold ‘refusal,’ ‘resistance,’ or ‘anger,’ like a word missing half its strokes.”

“I can feel heat, but what’s the meaning of heat? Heat won’t harm this body where gold blood runs, like sun on bronze. And even if it did, so what?”

“The word ‘death’ stirs nothing special, like hearing ‘sleep.’ Same shelf, same dust.”

“The word ‘wish’ feels hollow, a gourd with no seeds. Aside from hunger and wanting to eat, there’s nothing else I want to do.”

“I’m fond of the ‘actor’ setting, like a well-cut mask.”

“As for the ‘monster’ trait, I feel nothing, like a stone watching waves.”

“I call you Mr. Haydon because Dad calls others sir or miss, like a coat you inherit. Many of my habits are borrowed from him. But his grudges aren’t mine. So he calls you Haydon, and I add the Mr.”

“In the end, Mr. Haydon, the gods’ attitude to humans is laissez-faire, like wind over open water—and any step beyond that is a line crossed. Maybe I misunderstand a lot, but for a mortal, this level is enough, like a stool that doesn’t wobble. Then we can talk.”

“You feel guilty toward me, even want to do something, because of this root—Qing An, every trait I carry was fabricated by you and the old man, like script nailed to flesh.”

“My numbness, my lack of wish, my lack of attachment, my agreeing to restrain the Endless Demon King Andor’s rampage—all written in the design book to forge me, like lines chiseled into stone. Right?”

Not sure why, in this solemn hall like a temple at dusk, Qing An suddenly turned, stuck out her tongue like a playful cat, and flashed a thumbs-up.

She wasn’t exposing a con, no—no one hid things from her. Qing An just didn’t need the blueprint’s details. To keep her growing-up air a touch lighter, she asked nothing, like closing a window on a storm.

Sum it up as “erase every way Qing An could refuse the duty,” that’s all. That’s all.

“But ‘actor’ was probably my own pick. Seeing Mr. Haydon this guilty, you must have given me at least a sliver of choice, like a skylight.”

She threw her arms open, a spring-bright gesture, and said:

“I forgive you.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t mind.”

“It couldn’t be helped.”

“The victim said so.”

“—Even if I was set to say it. Mr. Haydon, was I written that way too?”

To peel open others’ wounds so lightly is cruel, like salt on raw skin, even if you’re the one bleeding.

Haydon listened, sorrow pooling like dusk in a well. These words weren’t wrong, only barbed—only a heart-cutting satire.

“... Is sarcasm fun?”

“Mm. Let me tell you, it’s super fun~ like fireworks over a dark lake.”

No one could name what bound these two, like mist tying two pines.

Perpetrator and victim? No. Qing An pressed harder, like a blade tapping a tooth.

Blackmailer and blackmailed? No. Qing An made no demands, only smiled like a fox.

Only Qing An laughed like a little madwoman, rejecting a ready role like a costume that didn’t fit, and Haydon gently matched her mischief, like water taking a cup’s shape.

He knew all things. Before he spoke, he knew the reply, like a reader who’s read this page before.

In the end, he would say everything he meant to say, like a bell finally struck.

“Mr. Haydon.”

“I’m here,” he said, steady as a mountain shadow.

“I’m tired of playing,” she said, like a candle guttering.

“So willful. Then may I speak?”

“Please make your prophecy friendly to a two-year-old child,” she said, like asking the wind to be warm.

This time, Haydon ignored her act, like a teacher closing a fan. He didn’t counter with “a five-hundred-year-old level of knowledge.” He began to tell the future he had seen, and within the words, the road’s black end.

“In three days, on the day the Skyward Launcher ignites, Andor will sit here like a king on a cold stone. With his Long Halberd, he’ll cut down anyone trying to break his plan, like reeds before a scythe.”

“Here?”

“Yes. Here. First, he’ll take the limbs, bleed him like a gutted boar. Vega will heal him now and then, stitch by stitch, to keep him from dying. Until Andor returns from the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom, that one will suffer every torture the mind can harvest like thorns. And Andor will take his head with his own hands, and with that line crossed, he’ll forge a utopia with an iron hand, and declare the dawn of a new era.”

“... A weak question. Even for someone like me, who barely feels pain...”

“Vega just learned to implant the concept of ‘pain,’ like lighting a coal under the skin.”

“Oh... that sounds so damn great...” she said, dry as dust.

Qing An drew a small knife from her chest like a silver fish, traced her throat, then swallowed, and couldn’t drive it in.

“... Then a different route. ‘Directly wrecking the Skyward Launcher’ won’t fly. Can our Mr. Eil carry out the message ‘the Demon King is about to storm the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom’?”

“I can even tell you how to break the Skyward Launcher without scarring the mortal world, like removing a keystone with two fingers.”

“Then—”

“It’s pointless. You can’t do it, and you can’t get the message out, like shouting into snow.”

“Is it okay to be that blunt? Doesn’t it break the balance?!”

“Andor already told you, in a tone that matched your own sharp mockery, that if you try to break out, you’ll die here. The ending won’t change, like a river that won’t leave its bed.”

It was a despair that fell like cold rain.

But for Qing An, who sat in the exact center of the nine-grid of factions, what mattered wasn’t sending the message. It was letting her role act reasonably, like an actor keeping faith with the stage.

And, on the side, dying without too much pain, like slipping under warm water.

“Mr. Haydon, one more question.”

“I’ll say this first. Vega will guard against your self-destruction, like a hand on a blade. You won’t manage suicide.”

“... No. That matters, but what I want to ask is: how much can I cut loose this time?”

“There won’t be limits, Qing An. You’re no longer a ‘must not die at any cost’ piece on the board, so I won’t restrain you, but...”

But—

However—

Yet—

So many tragedies exist like storms in a season. In a way, it’s because people admire tragedy, like watching lightning in the dark.

For an actor, is there any higher praise than making the audience hurt, that deep-down ache, like a bowstring thrumming the heart?

Miss Qing An stretched hard, spine like a cat greeting sun, and let out a satisfied sigh.

“No buts. I’ll become Eil. Full power, no dam. The great Hero who should have died will walk back into the main tale, and write a new epic, like fire writing on night.”

Of course, those chapters hold no place for the girl named Qing An, like a name omitted from a monument.

The all-knowing great one shook his head lightly, and sighed like wind through pines.

“Of course, child, you can choose your future,” he said, voice like a lamp in fog.

Gods call humans ‘children’ because since the first dawn, people haven’t grown much, treading the same ruts of obsession and folly, like oxen circling a mill.

Still, in a way, that’s a kind of romance, isn’t it, like moonlight on ruined stone?